


Thankful Recognition

by Mythology1



Category: Historical RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Gen, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:18:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythology1/pseuds/Mythology1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few years before the start of the Civil war, three children go on a train ride and encounter a mysterious stranger, along with the danger danger he manages to attract.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thankful Recognition

Somewhere in the fall of 1857, it was of dire importance that we see our long-suffering mother. Father had pressing business to attend to (or whatever reason he gave to avoid seeing his former wife) and left us to our own devices after paying for our tickets  
Katelyn and I were eleven and our brother Jameson was almost seven. We didn't understand why father couldn't attend, what was wrong with mother, or why they even separated in the first place. But my sister and I were at such an age where there was much we didn't know, but thought we knew enough not to worry about them.  
And besides, our solitary sojourn was an adventure! No parental guidance to hold us back. We were very independent children, going everywhere ourselves. This wasn't our first time on a train, and the absence of adult scrutiny could only make it better.

We boarded around 11: 30 in the noon, on the way to our country's capital and to our now absent mama. I recall that my father's last words to me were the usual words of warning to the oldest child (even if she be a daughter), "Look after your brother and sister. Don't let them cause trouble."  
I was exasperated by such futile words. Five minutes or five years, it didn't matter how much older I was, they never listened to me anyhow. I couldn't command them anymore than they could command me. As the train began its motion, I wished irately that he had at least told my siblings to mind me.

So many people to work, I think. All the cars we passed were crowded to fullness. Against our fathers wish, there were no empty cars left for us, the train-man explained apologetically as he led us along. But here was one that had been slowly emptying out throughout the day that could accommodate us.  
He dropped us off to the little room, pausing briefly before moving on.

I didn't know what he was talking about, for the compartment looked completely empty. We didn't see the occupant until we sat down across from him. The man was covered with the kind of blanket provided by the staff, the type that was nearly the same hue as the seat. The only parts of his sleeping form that were visible were part of his face and the ends of his skinny legs with their shabby shoes covering long feet.

Only out of initial curiosity of my new surroundings did I really study him. He was sort of curled into himself, with his head resting on one shoulder and his knees bent against the windowed wall. A large ear, shock of formally neat dark brown hair, dark brows settled above closed eyes were the only things I could see of him, turned away from me above the cloth. He may have been around thirtyish, but could have been older. In my eyes back then, everyone passed their youth were all old and of the same age.  
He was asleep, harmless, and of little interest to us. Never fearing the presence of strangers, we carried on our way as he faded back into the background.

We chatted as the hours passed, marveling at the ephemeral scenery, playing games, staving of boredom the best we could. James, sitting between me and Katie, suddenly piped up after minutes of silence, his big eyes showing the beginning of unease.  
"Is that man dead?"  
What he said gave us momentary pause as we looked at the forgotten being again. The sir hadn't so much as moved or made a sound the entire joined journey. Casually trying to pacify our sibling, Katie, with her bored humor said,

"No, he just sleeps like the dead"

I started to curiously wonder a little. The constant vibrations of the train were not something I would be able to ignore. Our voices had not in the least disturbed him either. Perhaps he's going to the same place as us. Or perhaps he missed his stop, I considered.  
The sky changed, nearing its dim set as evening drew closer. Maybe we would drift off into sleep ourselves if there was not much else to do.

My grandmother can be a little odd at times, speaking of troubled intuitions and feelings that needed heeding. At that moment, I felt a sensation akin to that for the first time. The ennui dissolved as trepidation began to fall from my head to my heart, like the abrupt trickling of cold water through me.

 

The environment seemed to change with me, as a hush ceased the prior hum of conversation. I could only hear one muffled voice, one set of approaching footfalls. Without thinking, I wrapped an arm around my brother's shoulder. My hand brushed my sister's as she did the same.

The footsteps were peculiar in their inconsistent rhythm. They seemed to grow closer, yet fainter, in intervals.

(He's going in and out of the cars)

I heard a woman gasp and that muffled voice, louder this time, with more anger. I was reminded of the nights when I listened through the wall as my parents argued, too nervous to sleep, trying but failing to make out the words.  
As the sounds grew ever nearer, my eyes began to dart around the room, hopelessly seeking a place to run or hide.  
When my gaze flitted to the man again, it lingered, surprised to see the first signs of life.  
His eyes were half-lidded but open, revealing medium gray. They were tired and distant, but with a shine that exposed awareness. Those heavy thuds, closer than ever, distracted me for a moment. When I looked back, those lids were completely closed. Was it my imagination that they were ever anything otherwise? 

The footsteps stopped as a silhouette filled the doorframe. The thing stepped into the compartment, into the light. It was a man, but his unruly blond hair, panting breath, and the way his head twitched as he regarded the room, all made us shy away as though he were a wild animal. We pulled closer together as his wide eyes passed over us. He barred his teeth in a in a feral sort of grin as his breathing halted, looking away from us. As he stepped towards the seated man, a hardly controlled hiss erupted from him, forming raspy amused words

"Cut the act. I know it's you."  
Feeling more like children than we ever did, we watched as the beastly man pulled off the blanket.  
The gentleman beneath was very gangly, his shabby vestments failing to hide how rawboned he was. With feigned slumber over, the man opened his eyes to regard the visitor, not looking the least bit irritated, or even surprised. There was only a solemn pensiveness expressed in that unusual face.  
The standing man started speaking again, on the verge of laughing hysterics.  
"What you gonna do now, ya little big-talking nothing?"  
He pulled out the first gun I ever saw as he talked.  
"See what happens when you stray from your place…"  
His hands steadied as he pointed the gun at the other man. The first man slowly raised his hands, maintaining his stare, lifting an eyebrow, but remaining silent. A long pause as loaded as that gun followed. In one easy movement, the endangered man was on his feet, towering over the grinning danger, his hands still raised, his expression still one of somber dignity.  
The gunman's leer faltered a bit, "You best sit right back down, boy" he commanded through gritted teeth. There was an audible click.

Without warning, James sneezed.  
The aggressor's head snapped to us, his wild eyes actually seeing us as we held each other desperately close, fearing the worse.  
With attention distracted from him, the scarecrow bounded forward, grabbing the armed wrist. The other man struggled as his arm was forced in the air, growling and thrashing about like a beast caught in a trap. No matter how much he tore and pushed, his efforts failed to move the man or bring the gun back into a firing position. The device went off with a bang, firing into the ceiling twice.  
We flinched, but remained unable to look away.  
Unmoving and impassive, the tall chap's other hand clamped around the swearing man throat and lifted him into the air until his head nearly hit the ceiling, suspended by a strength one so spare should not have been able to assemble. For a moment, the blond man kicked his feet in midair, striking a blow to the other man's hip. Seemingly unaffected, the thin man slammed the brute to the ground (if the hand were not still wrapped around that neck, the man would have been thrown) with enough force to summon that even the train's tremors could not drown out.

The gangling man rose before the groaning, prostrate figure, now wielding the gun. The dazed ruffian, half out of the car, lifted his head an inch to see his own weapon pointed at him with drowsy, widening eyes.  
Through the grim austerity, I could see what looked to be sad compassion cross the advantageous man's countenance.  
Before the prone man could move further, the door was thrown open and uniformed men were on him. Not straining much this time, he was forced up by the train workers, no doubt alerted by the commotion or the call of a daring passenger. A look of understanding passed between the ungainly one and one of the men as he handed him the gun, as the thwarted assassin was dragged away through the dispersing crowd of onlookers.

We remained huddled together, staring up at the unlikely valiant with disbelief and lingering shock.

 

The man stood very tall, much taller than father, as he looked down at us. With tentative certainty, he bent down on one knee before us, making himself level with us cowering observers. Such an unusual face, with high, hollowed cheekbones, sunken eyes, thin lips, big ears. He had a mole on his cheek and one of his eye lids did not open as much as the other. A less grateful person would think of him as homely, but he just looked a little awkward to me.  
There was a rugged fragility in his features, along with sadness etched into every line. But there was also a gentle strength.  
The grim expression softened as he looked us over.  
"Don't be afraid. You youn'ins all right?" He had a shrill sort of voice, regulated by some sort of southern twang. Not what would be expected from one of his stature.

Exchanging glances with my sister, I spoke up, a little hesitantly "w-We're fine, but what about you?"  
He gave a small chuckle and smile. "Don't worry, it wasn't so bad"  
The reassurance promised in those intelligent eyes and kind smile seemed to bring an end to our fears, like darkness driven away by the inevitable morning light.

He looked off for a moment, his dreamy graveness fleetingly returning  
"How I've missed traveling unaccompanied" his smile turned rueful as he said this. He looked back at us, giving us the respected consideration of one conversing with adults, or fellow "youn'ins"  
The man warmly regarded my brother, who still stared in revered awe, with a beaming grin that seemed to light up every strange feature.  
"You really did me a great service back there, partner" James, silenced with a newfound shyness, smiled a little, oblivious of what he really did to earn such thanks.  
The next thing he knew, his hair was being tussled by a big bony hand.  
Unsure of how to react, I sat wide-eyed as he shook my hand that was dwarfed by his, looking into my eyes and with indebted affection.  
The gentlemanly man stood up, straightening his attire and looking about in an almost self-conscious fashion.  
"Forgive me for this, and stay safe" he said, giving us a last slightly sad smile before turning around and exiting the car, as many people had begun to do.

Reawakened to my surroundings, I looked out the window to see that we had arrived to our destination.  
Unsteadily, we stepped out onto the sidewalk, holding hands as we did so. In no time we were greeted by our aunt, looking harried as she told us to come along, there wasn't much time. I almost forgot what she was talking about, not really listening as I searched the crowd, sure that my siblings were doing the same. Once we were ushered into the carriage, it was almost as if he was never there at all. Though the memory remained, I honestly never expected to see him again, but a few years later, my outlook was proven wrong.

At fourteen years of age, a year after my mother finally died, I was being dragged through a buzzing sea of bodies by my father, neither of us really wanting me there. His continuous efforts to get me interested in politics and other typically masculine fields had failed so far, so he had nothing to lose by taking me to see his candidate speak in person. As we situated ourselves to the front of the throng, the sight I was greeted by stopped me dead in my tracks, a heavy déjà vu flooding through me.

I almost did not recognize him. Taller than ever, elevated on a stage and lengthened by a long hat, I was able to see him enough to scrutinize who I thought he may be. Wearing black formal clothing, the practical vagabond of before was hardly present. His face dashed my uncertainty. He had grown a short beard, but the angular visage full of weary understanding was undoubtedly the same, with the sad lines etched a little deeper.  
When he started to speak, that strident, almost feminine, voice only cemented my identification, even if his accent was more subdued.

As he surveyed the crowd, minutely scanning every face, I believe he stopped at mine, genuinely seeing me. For an instant, I noticed a miniscule sparkle in those gray eyes and twitch of his lips that would be indistinguishable to all others. Thankful for those few moments of mutual recognition, I did not mind it when he turned his whole notice to his entire audience.  
I do not quite recall what his speech had been about, but I do remember how his words enthralled every rowdy man in the crowd still.  
Once it was done, the masses scattered, and my father took my arm and commenced pulling me away. As I looked back, I saw the man overlooking the men surrounding him, looking in my direction. We once more parted ways, but that did not quell my regained curiosity.

Father's zealous following of political events allowed me to fuel my fascination. As I sifted through every discarded newspaper, I made sure to learn whatever I could of the mysterious public man. James, the incident of preservation still fresh in his mind, often skimmed through them as I did, or asked me to read them to him.  
Some articles were incredibly enlightening, earning the champion more of my admiration. His name was Abraham Lincoln, or "Honest Abe". I had to admit, he was so exceedingly well preserved that he could not be taken for more than thirty-eight in spite of his fifty-two years. The papers included bits and pieces of his hard upbringing in the frontier, and how he had risen from nothing to become a generous public servant. Mr. Lincoln was married with children of his own. I thought there had been something fatherly about his concern

Other articles were far too scathing for my attention to endure. How they mocked him, pettily caricaturing his appearance instead of focusing on his words. "not only is the ugliest man I ever saw, but the most uncouth and gawky in his manners and appearance." He never looked ugly to me, for his countenance brimming with boundless kindness and benevolence towards mankind, possessed a stamp of intellectual beauty.

If I were a man of the right age, I would give him my vote twenty times over. Above all, I was comforted to know that the nation, my home, and family had been entrusted into the most reliable, and trustworthy of hands.  
My well-being was assured once again.

Denyelle Bryson-September 5th, 1860


End file.
